The Facility
by Canniblaine
Summary: Or How Kurt Hummel Did Not Sign up for New York. After Burt's death, Kurt checks himself into a facility. Eventual Klaine.
1. Chapter 1

Kurt read the form over one last time, eyes glazing over every word that he had already read to memorization over the week, and with a hand held far too steady to be relaxed, signed his name at the bottom.

He'd been waiting in the sharp, chilly morning air, wrapped in a soft black and brown woolen sweater that buttoned over the big red buttons down the side. The scarf was burnt sienna and cashmere and wrapped snugly around his neck, broad enough to come up to his chin, his nose red and face blotchy from the cold.

"New York and your awesome dreams or bust," Finn had said over breakfast, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth, a silly eggy grin on his face. Kurt hadn't been able to help a smile, this was the last time he was going to see his stepbrother's stupid but well-meaning face after all. Finn had been trying, trying sincerely (Kurt could tell) ever since Burt's death and the funeral had been taxing on him, almost as taxing as it had been on Kurt.

Carole smiled empty smiles these days. Kurt had a feeling he was faring no better in that department. Finn still had the fire in him, still had Rachel to hold on to, and Kurt wasn't begrudging him for it. Finn had helped him carry his bags out onto the street, and Carole had now hailed him a cab.

He piled himself into the back seat with his luggage, and rattled off the directions to the cab driver that lead nowhere near the airport he was supposed to be heading for.

He huddled up in the backseat, his luggage occupying most of the space. He idly wondered why Finn hadn't thrown it into the trunk. He wasn't complaining, it gave him company. Carole had been concerned that he had sold most of his clothes and kept only his favorite things, but she'd also been aware that he couldn't possibly take everything with him while moving. New York offered better options anyway.

The cab wound its way around town, and Kurt stared out of the misted window. It drove out into the outskirts of town, and Kurt directed it down a beaten track leading into the woods. He adjusted his scarf a little, nervousness evident.

It wasn't long before Boonehelm's Processing Plant loomed in the distance, towering over the trees and fenced off with a heavy metal enclosure and mesh. Kurt instructed the cab driver to pull up outside of the facility's main gates, before the checkpoint, and felt a little affronted when the driver unloaded his luggage out onto the damp, grassy soil before backing up and driving off.

He let it lie for then. He walked up to the security outpost, and held up his form with one shaking hand.

"Applicant 406. Approved," breathed Kurt. The guard lethargically raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement, before taking the paper and stamping it with the permission to pass. He pressed a switch; the enclosure's gate slow rose up with the grinding hum of metal upon metal.

Kurt paused. "I'll need somebody to help me with the luggage."

The guard contemplated him with a lazy stare, and then buzzed in on his desk bell. Kurt shifted nervously from foot to foot, waiting for assistance. The nervousness was settling in as a frantic thrumming in his chest and guts as he visibly trembled. He tried to oust all thoughts of reconsidering from his mind.

He was resolute. This was what he'd wanted. This was his calling.

Kurt glanced inside. A man in the bright orange and green uniform of Boonehelm's was finally walking down the concrete flooring inside the enclosure, down towards the gate. Kurt smiled at him lightly.

"You're young," he said, as he reached Kurt. He himself was perhaps about thirty-five, though with crows-feet and eyebags and a few graying hairs. "Young ones are rare."

"How surprising," replied Kurt, only half sarcastic. His voice came out shrill and high. The man hefted Kurt's luggage up, gathering up all the heavy bags in one go.

"They're usually in their thirties, like me," he said, as he began walking back inside. Kurt followed him, boots clopping along the concrete. "I wanted to sign up, but… got my old man at home and I gotta feed him. Can't be a one-time payment. Plus, you work here, you realize you don't wanna be on the other side."

"How bad is it?" asked Kurt quickly. He was now shivering from the cold as well, eyes misting.

"Pretty bad, I guess, depends on how much you want it," said the man, finally pushing open the double doors and stepping inside. Kurt exhaled with a shudder; it was much warmer on the inside. The hall was wide, but steel doors lined the walls, labeled with green and white signboards. The one to Kurt's right said _Skewer Room_.

Kurt swallowed, his throat tightening. _Basting Room. Assessment Center. Quality Control_.

This was real and he wasn't going to escape this or change his mind.

"Doors to the far left," said the man, gesturing towards another pair of double doors near the far left corner of the hall. "I'll drop your luggage off for you, you should head to the showers. Show 'em your papers and they'll take care of it."

Kurt nodded, clutching onto his papers so tight they crumpled in his fist. He kept himself from blinking, because Burt's face seemed etched into the back of his eyelids and if it weren't for the numbness coating his senses, he would have broken down by now.

He glanced around until he found _Showers_. It was a frosted glass door. He heaved a breath, then walked towards it, resolve steeled by now. Marginally.

Inside, it was white linoleum and the smell of antiseptic. Shower cubicles lined the wall on one side, and a large mirror and sinks lined the other. A tired, world-weary sort of woman was halfheartedly polishing a water faucet with a toothbrush.

"Um," said Kurt uncertainly. He suddenly felt a burst of courage. "I've been sent here to shower. Applicant 406, approved. Papers."

He held the papers out. The lady didn't even bother to inspect them as she waved them off. "Cubicle 1," she said dryly, jerking her thumb in its general direction.

"I'll get my soap," said Kurt, turning to leave. The lady clucked her tongue.

"No, no. Get into the cubicle."

Kurt hesitated, his stomach churning at the thought of the cloying, antiseptic-smelling soap lathering itself over his skin. "No, I have my skin care regimen and this will unbalance my delicate –"

"Cubicle," said the lady, grabbing Kurt by the scruff of the neck and pushing him in the general direction of the cubicles. Kurt hesitated, still uncertain. The soap really couldn't be healthy at all.

"Undress," said the lady, in the same monotonous voice. Kurt blushed, he had never undressed in front of a woman who wasn't a doctor. He then pushed his insecurities aside and started unwrapping his scarf, and unbuttoning his sweater.

As he stepped out of his pants and peeled off his lacy shirt, goosebumps rose on his skin from the slight chill of the shower room. He left his clothes upon the countertop of the sinks, his papers on her desk, and stepped into Cubicle 1.

The lady followed him inside, and Kurt felt a pang of embarrassment and felt his face grow hot as fire. She removed and turned on the detachable showerhead, and Kurt stood as still as he could as she doused him with hot, hot water. At least she was being mechanical about it.

It was humiliating. Kurt felt tears escape his eyes into the slew of hot water, tears he didn't know had been welling up.

The lady brought out a bottle of soap and a bath scrub. She poured a generous amount of the white, waxy substance into the sponge, and rubbed it over Kurt, working it into a rich lather. Kurt was surprised as the soap felt surprisingly rehydrating and softening against his skin, as good as his custom peach and honey concoction. It doubled up for shampoo as well, and Kurt could, with some shock, practically feel it smoothen and condition his hair thoroughly.

She left the soap on, and Kurt assumed it was so it could sink in. "Turn around and bend over. We'll clean you on the inside now," she said curtly.

Kurt felt the nervousness spike again, but he had been expecting this. He obeyed his instructions, bending over the small countertop inside the cubicle (Kurt figured it had been provided for this very purpose, as had been the toilet in the corner) and raising his ass up into the air. He felt the soap running down his crack.

The lady pushed at his entrance with a finger, slicked by the soap. Kurt wanted to question if the soap would be safe to put inside of him, but before he could find it in himself to talk, she'd pushed a finger in up to the knuckle. Kurt tensed, a whimper escaping his mouth at the intrusion.

She wasn't gentle as she dug around, trying to loosen Kurt up quickly. Kurt was gripping at the countertop, soft noises escaping his lips because he'd never been fingered so _roughly_ before. He'd only ever had sex with Blaine once, and that… he didn't want to think about it, because that was just depressing and his tears were leaving visible tracks down his soap-covered face. She finally extricated her finger, and Kurt felt himself clenching reflexively.

"Relax and lean to your left," she said, pressing the nozzle of a tube against Kurt's hole. She sunk it in, and Kurt arched. She patted him genially on the ass before fiddling with the knobs of the enema outlet, until Kurt felt warm liquid trickle into his bowels.

It was uncomfortable already. He squirmed. He felt strong hands place themselves over his abdomen.

"Shh," she said, and there was no real comfort in that voice. She started massaging his abdomen, firm and strong, and the discomfort was only rising. Kurt whimpered loudly, twitching a little. The humiliation distressed him more than the physical discomfort.

He was growing hard.

It had nothing to do with the lady. It was the stimulation that was getting to him, and as time passed and he found himself cramping painfully, the sensation of being so _full_. Perhaps also the sensation of being utterly humiliated. He hated himself for his body's reactions. He hated himself for having wanted this. For still wanting it. He had never imagined his own sexual arousal would play a part in this course of events.

He felt full enough to burst. "Right side," said the woman, and Kurt shifted, choking on a sob as he endured a particularly painful cramp. He was pretty sure he couldn't hold anymore and could feel the water sloshing around in his belly as he turned, yet more water was still flowing into him.

He dared himself to glance down, and the sight of his bulging belly made him feel lightheaded.

"Uhnggh," he said, voice hoarse and weak. He wasn't sure it belonged to himself. "Please, I don't think I can hold anymore."

The woman didn't respond. The cramps were now turning into agony, accelerated by her insistent massaging. Kurt didn't want to beg to be allowed to void.

Finally, she pulled out the nozzle and Kurt panicked briefly, but she pushed in something stronger and large in its place, roughly enough to make Kurt jump, belly sloshing. Kurt made a whining sound in his throat, shuddering at the new, larger object lodged in his hole. Plugging him.

"Please," he sobbed. "Please, please just _please_…"

The lady turned the water on again, rinsing the soap off his body. Kurt was shaking too hard to stand by the time she was satisfied, his skin red from the heat of the water and the humiliation.

She then stepped out of the cubicle and allowed him to void. He had to unplug himself. He found himself sobbing by the time he was done, and he stumbled out of the cubicle on weak, trembling legs, and she attacked him with a towel. It was all he could do to stand there as she toweled him dry, his half-hard erection wilting.

His heart jumped as soon as the towel was no longer blocking his vision. The sink countertop was empty.

"Where are my clothes?" he asked. He wrapped his arms around himself, fidgeting nervously. He didn't want to lose those clothes. "Please, please don't hot wash them. Or tumble-dry."

"You don't need clothes," said the woman, blasé.

"What?" Kurt's eyes widened. "I have to parade around in my birthday suit?"

"Yyyep," said the lady. She picked a clipboard up off her desk and checked something off. "To the back," she said, ushering Kurt towards the back of the showers. Kurt stumbled forwards.

She gestured to a steel table. "Waxing," she said.

Kurt was used to waxing. He hopped onto the table and let her do his arms and legs. He bit down on his wrist when she did his pubic hair, but it wasn't unbearable.

She rubbed some cool gel into the burning areas. Kurt felt strangely sleepy all of a sudden. It was probably about eleven AM, but he was exhausted.

"Stop by at Assessment," she said. She handed him his papers. Kurt took them wordlessly, distancing himself from all thoughts of what his dad would say if he saw him like this (because he couldn't, not now) and exited the showers. The _Assessment Center_ was to his left. He felt oddly exposed out here in the empty hall, though he was all alone. There were sounds of movement and speech coming from behind the double-doors where he assumed the suites were.

The assessment center was but a small room, almost like a physician's office. The guy sitting at the desk and clicking idly away at his computer glanced up, and smiled. Kurt tried to ignore the urge to cover himself up. He read his nametag; it said Gareth Morris.

"Applicant 406," said Kurt. He was almost getting used to this. Morris beckoned him over, and Kurt instinctually shut the door behind himself, and went over and stood at the side of Morris' desk. Morris gestured to him to stand on the weighing scale positioned there, and Kurt did.

Morris pulled his desk drawer open, pulled out a leather band with a strip of paper attached to it by a ring. He stood up from his seat and walked around to Kurt. "Right then," he said, leaning in to squint at Kurt's papers. "Kurt Hummel, are you?" He pulled out his pen from the breast pocket of his lab coat and wrote Kurt's name down onto the strip of paper. He put the band on the desk beside him.

"Let's see then," he said, as he recorded Kurt's weight onto a clipboard. He then clasped his hand to Kurt's sides, digging into his skin. "Hm, decent." He pressed into his tummy, into the softness around his bellybutton. He groped at Kurt's arms, then lowered his hands to Kurt's ass and squeezed his ass cheeks, one in each hand and hard. Kurt winced.

"Decent, decent. Could use a bit more squish, but soft and supple and young." He withdrew his hand, then slapped Kurt's hip, hard. Kurt, caught by surprised, made a strangled yell, cheeks burning. No matter how personal Morris' touch felt, Kurt told himself his wasn't sexual. It was merely assessment. They were playing roles, doing their jobs. "Reddens nicely." Morris squeezed his thighs, then ran a hand over his dick and weighed his balls in his palm. Kurt felt his face grow hot again. "A B, I think."

"Is," Kurt swallowed. "Is a B good?"

"It's fine," said Morris. He grinned at Kurt, then penned his grade into the band's tag. He then wrapped the band around Kurt's neck and buckled it.

Kurt felt strangely humbled.

Morris patted him on the butt. Kurt wasn't sure if that was part of his job description. "To your room, scurry along," he said cheerily.

Kurt realized that the anxiety of walking out into the hall hadn't eased any. He quickly crossed the space to reach the double doors, pushed them open, and entered a chintz-carpeted corridor lined with doors on either side. Laughter and speech echoed down the hallway, through the wooden doors.

There were names on the doors, two to a room. Kurt walked along until he found the one marked _Dan Freyman_ and _Kurt Hummel_. He briefly hesitated outside the door, then emboldened himself with the vacant comfort of how this was all his choosing, and pushed it open and peered inside.

The other occupant wasn't present. There was no window, but there was a sun lamp fixed overhead that lent the room a warm, yellow glow. There were two beds that looked clean and comfortable, and a table in between. There was a small shelf of books, and a smaller shelf of what, Kurt wasn't sure. His luggage was piled against the wall on the far side. There was a door at the back that Kurt figured lead to a bathroom. The carpeting was warm and homely.

He allowed himself in. He wasn't sure which bed was his, but the one to his right looked more slept-in and had a book on the pillow, so he took the one with the polka-dot bedspreads. He curled up into a ball upon the springy mattress, pulling the covers up to his chin and wallowing in the comfort of covering himself up.

He must have fallen asleep then, because the next thing he knew was waking up to the soft clinking of china and seeing a rotund, balding, naked fifty-something man, his beer gut spilling out onto his lap as he sat on the edge of his bed. His spoon clinked methodically against the china of his large bowl as he ate what Kurt assumed was their served lunch.

Kurt felt anxious and not very inclined to uncover himself. He curled up tighter. "Hello," he mumbled. Looking at the man made him want to choke up with emotion and cry.

The man looked up. He smiled brightly, but it didn't shine past his evident underlying misery. "Hello," he said in what Kurt assumed was supposed to be a cheerful tone. The lilt of it betrayed him once again. "You must be Kurt Hummel. Dan Freyman, if you didn't know. You're younger than I'd have thought. Don't be shy. We're all just cattle here."

When Kurt didn't respond, he added, "it helps if you get used to the idea. Eat. They check on you and make sure you eat everything. It's a very balanced, nutritious diet. If you don't eat they force-feed you."

Kurt lowered his gaze to his bowl. It was gruel of some sort, with chunky bits and dumplings thrown in. Dan was spooning it eagerly into his mouth, but without the actual urgency of hunger. Kurt finally pulled himself up into a sit, keeping his lower half under the sheets.

He tried a spoonful of the gruel. It wasn't bad. Possibly better than one of McKinley's specials from a couple of months ago. He ignored the pang of longing the thought spiked in his belly, and set to work eating. He discovered he'd been hungry, after all.

"So, why?" said Dan, trying to keep the tone light. Kurt looked up from his food and realized his eyes were blurring with tears.

"It seemed like a good idea," he said, unable to keep wry scorn out of his voice. He didn't like the question at all, and he clenched his fist on his lap.

"I see, I see," said Dan. His voice was more subdued now; he'd clearly gotten the message. "Well, thought we could share stories, you know, that kind of business."

"I don't want to talk about it," said Kurt quickly. He focused on eating.

"Good, good, that's all right then," said Dan, uncertainty evident now. "Well… I left a wife and a kid behind. I had four kids, you know. Well, she was pregnant when I left. I've been here for months, don't think anyone wants me. Going to be scraps soon. Poor them."

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Kurt, genuinely feeling bad. "That's… I'm really sorry."

"They died," Dan shrugged. "All three of my kids. Bus accident on the way to a game."

Kurt put his spoon back into his bowl. He folded both hands upon his lap. "Oh god."

"I saw them die," said Dan. "Keith was pulled under the tires of another bus and twisted. I remember his screams. Daisy was flung out of the window, glass breaking and tearing her skin. She hit the pavement and her skull broke. I think Michael just died of shock."

Kurt found himself shaking again. "My father died," he said quietly. "Heart attack."

"Did he now?" said Dan. "I'm very sorry. No other family?"

"Stepbrother and stepmother," said Kurt. He was crying now, tears running down his face. He sniffled. Dan didn't call attention to it. "They'll just get the check. I'm supposed to be in New York."

"You won't get all that much if you go to scraps," said Dan morosely. Kurt remembered the contract and what Dan had said, and snapped up with sympathy. Dan's eyes were bloodshot and misty.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Kurt. He hesitated, unsure of what to say. He gestured vaguely at Dan's midsection. "Surely, someone would be interested…?"

Dan laughed dryly. "Sure. That's what I tell myself everyday. Eat, boy. You'll have to have your afternoon feeding soon."

Kurt finished his lunch in silence. There was actually a lot of it, and he felt heavy and full by the time he was done. Dan had resumed reading his book by then, it was a non-comprehensive collection of Sumerian legends. Kurt wanted something to do, but the bookshelf was too far away and there was no way he could get to it without exposing himself to Dan.

He lay down in bed again, and curled up. Dan glanced up when he did so, but he didn't comment on it. Kurt fingered his collar and wondered how Carole and Finn must be doing at the moment. Finn was possibly working in the garage he'd inherited and Carole might be watching TV absently. Both of them carrying on. Kurt hoped he'd be worth a lot.

He suddenly remembered his clothes. He sat up again, wrapping the sheets around himself. He slid out of bed with the comforter around him, and went over to his bags. He needn't walk around naked, after all.

It was only after he'd gotten a deep violet shirt out and black pants with safety pins down the sides that Dan spoke up.

"Oh no no no, don't do that," he said.

Kurt turned around, a little mortified. "What, don't do what? Wear clothes?"

"Prohibited. You'll be punished for it," Dan said simply. He went back to his book, turning a page. "Cattle don't wear clothes."

Kurt paused, feeling even more exposed now that he knew he was forbidden from covering up. His lower lip wibbled, and he wanted to say something but he wasn't sure what. After a few minutes, he put his clothes back into his bags, and went over to kneel beside the bookshelf.

_Death Is Commonplace_, Kurt read off the spine of a book. _Are you on the Front Porch of the Beyond? Civilizations and the Stigma of Death. Have We Made The End Taboo? Surviving the End of Human Consciousness. _They were mostly books about making peace with death, the afterlife, and mythologies and theories of existence. _Instilling Fear: A Biography of Dying, _Kurt read. _Is the Afterlife a Sun or a Moon? Mommy, It Doesn't Hurt At All!_

"Interesting theme," said Kurt, picking up _Facts and Fallacies, The Death Condition. _"And I was expecting culinary manuals and cookbooks." He laughed a little. Dan didn't respond.

He returned to his bed and spent all of the afternoon (breaking only to have his second lunch when it was brought in by the man who had carried his luggage in, and which, even though he ate very slowly, made him feel sick from being overfed) reading the book. He learned that the lack of oxygen triggered the agonal phase of death, which included involuntary muscle spasms. He learned that the human body does not, after all, lose 21 grams upon dying. He was a little disappointed. He found his mind wandering while halfway through the book, and it was only when he was imagining his father's strong hands wrapping around him and holding him close that he gave up altogether and lifted his comforter up over his head, and cried his heart out.

Next morning, Kurt found that he had to step out of his comforter after all. He endured it, and was relieved when Dan didn't look. Stepping outside, Kurt was startled to see the other applicants standing in the corridor, all of them naked and tagged. They were all much older than him, both men and women, and though they seemed healthy, their faces were masks of resigned sorrow. Some of them were smiling and talking.

Kurt wanted to cover himself up again, but at the same time, he felt oddly emboldened. He kept catching glimpses of the trademarked circle rune of Boonehelm Processing Plant scarred into their inner thighs. The idea terrified him, but he was aware of the marking procedure. He wondered when it'd happen to him.

He followed the others to the showers. The lady didn't assign them cubicles this time. Kurt chose one and entered it, and had turned the shower on when the door (which had no lock) opened and the lady stepped in.

"What – I don't need help!" Kurt protested, but she defiantly occupied the cubicle with him, pouring soap onto a sponge as the water ran over his body, bringing his wet hair down into his face.

"I can do this, I know how to shower," Kurt hissed between clenched teeth as she began lathering him up. She washed him off, and Kurt wondered if he should turn around, but she didn't insist on the enema. He glanced quick looks around the showers when he stepped out, checking if anyone else had gotten an assistant to help with their showers. They hadn't. Kurt felt vaguely insulted; did she think he couldn't maintain his hygiene by himself? Especially when he usually went to the ends of keeping himself meticulously clean and sanitary?

Honestly, Kurt thought, some of the other applicants could have probably used the help.

"Why did you wash me?" he asked her. She didn't respond. Kurt raised his voice a little.

"Why are you washing me? I can wash myself."

She looked up from somebody's papers, eyes as weary as ever. "General procedure for the first week."

"Oh." Kurt felt incredibly foolish. "I wasn't told."

"Now you have," she said, signaling him off. "Hurry off."

Kurt returned to the corridor. He hesitated for a moment outside his room, hearing Dan walking around inside, possibly rearranging the sparse furniture again. He had done it twice since Kurt had moved in. He looked to his left, and then feeling brave, stepped over to the neighboring room and knocked on the door.

_Boris Ryers_ and _Katrin Marshall_, Kurt read while he waited for the door to open. It was opened by a short, blonde woman who seemed to have grown accustomed to her nakedness, as much as the man sharing the room with her has. She smiled at Kurt and beckoned him inside. The man was sitting cross-legged on a bed. He smiled at Kurt as well, though it was a wry sort of smile.

"You're new, aren't you?" said the woman. "Katrin is the name. Boris," she said, gesturing to the man. He smiled and waved with his fingers. He had shoulder-length, scraggly brown hair and a large nose. "Would you like some biscuits? We have a couple of biscuits we've been saving up."

"Oh, yes, I am. And no, that's very kind but I can't take them from you," breathed Kurt, surprised at the warm welcome. "How did you get them?"

"They give you one if you're very nice when being punished," said Boris. His voice was low and hoarse. "I get myself in trouble every week and save them up."

"Well… in that case, I really shouldn't take them," said Kurt, mentally stepping back a little. Then curiosity got the better of him; plus, he figured he ought to be prepared. "Punished? How?"

"By the brain," Kartin answered simply. "Electrodes. It's not all bad, though."

"You don't go there every week," said Boris. "It is all that bad."

"What happened to you?" said Katrin, narrowing her eyes at Kurt. "Why is somebody like you here?"

"I graduated," said Kurt, inhaling and crossing his arms, or perhaps hugging himself, "I was supposed to go to New York with my friend Rachel… but my father died and, here I am."

"That's not incentive enough," snapped Boris. "It's got to be something else. Sign yourself up for this just because of your father? With a whole new life ahead of you?"

"Well, why are you here?" asked Kurt, digging his fingers into his upper arms.

"Oh, no no, that's a long story," Katrin laughed. "You should sit down, dear. Maybe take one of the biscuits after all."

"Nobody signs up for this over a dead father," said Boris, fixing Kurt with a scrutinizing glare. Kurt fidgeted, uncomfortable and angry.

"I think I know and stand by my own priorities, thanks," he huffed. Katrin laughed genially.

"He doesn't mean it. He's just not the same these days. Aren't you a little messed up, Boris?"

"I think I should be going," said Kurt. He turned and exited the room. They didn't try to stop him.

He didn't feel up to socializing again. He returned to his room and his limited choice of books. The boredom was exceeding his general state of dull anxiety. He felt almost felt relaxed as he curled up in bed and read another book (_Kittens Too Die_) and when the night rolled around, he brought out his skin lotions and water toners and moisturized himself until he felt generally better. He had his double serving of dinner and then pulled out his laptop from his luggage, and listened to some music on his earphones. He quickly fell asleep, Dan's snoring lulling him into a sense of domestic security over the warm notes of Mitzi Gaynor. He hoped Dan wouldn't end up as scraps.

He had a very strange dream, full of warmth and light and comfort that he couldn't remember in the morning. His laptop had gone on standby.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II.**

Kurt found that he had grown more familiar and accustomed to the idea of thinking of himself as cattle by the end of the week.

Not that the thought didn't spark a sense of defiance in him all the same, but he was growing used to that sense of defiance and handwaving it aside. The fact that he was being overfed was more of a discomfort, and receiving enemas every other day was ruining his self-image. Which, he supposed, only helped him dissociate himself from his sense of pride and that in turn, made life in Boonehelm Processing that much easier.

He hadn't imagined he'd have to _wait_ so long. Nobody had even come in and looked at him yet.

Nobody had come to look at Dan either, and Kurt could see him become visibly anxious. He had become skittish and his hand shook when he ate, shook when he held the book he was reading. His eyes would flick to the door every time there was a knock or the knob turned. He would visibly deflate when it was just their food, or perhaps the occasional co-applicant dropping by to say hello. Kurt had gotten to know Michael, Suzanne, Dion, Evan, Holly and Bryan. He'd also learned a fair bit of their histories and what had brought them here, except for Evan, who didn't seem receptive to the idea of talking about it.

"I did some stupid things," he'd say, sitting on Kurt's bed and nibbling the biscuits he graciously accepted from other people. "Some really stupid, stupid things."

Kurt had tried to get some of the others to sing with him. It worked briefly, though it was only Suzanne that had any talent for doing so. Kurt wished he could go on youtube, but internet signals were blocked off in the facility. He supposed it was obvious why.

Sleeping at night had gotten harder during the week, partially due to Kurt's dreams having gotten more haphazard and his sleep lighter, but also due to the low, intermittent growl of machinery that had started up a couple of days after he'd arrived. Dan informed him that they had had the grinders off for cleaning and reparations around the time he'd arrived. Still, it became easy to ignore, like the ticking of a clock or living near a construction site. He found that if he didn't think too hard about how Rachel would be leaving the coming weekend to meet up with him in New York, it wasn't all that bad. Sometimes he thought about Burt on the ventilators in the hospital, breathing hard and face red and body dying according to the little numbers on his telemetry, and wondered if he should have chosen a quicker method.

Kurt supposed he'd imagined this would be glamorous in its own way. But honestly, it felt a lot less desperate and more like a new experience. The sun lamp had made it a bright sort of morning when Kurt was sitting on his bed and applying a coat of clear varnish to his nails (he worried as to what would happen once his supplies ran out, and hoped he'd be purchased before such a calamity should come to pass) when one of the facility staff, dressed in Boonehelm's now familiar green and orange uniform, knocked on their door and beckoned him to come along.

Kurt had followed him to the assessment center. He left Kurt at the door, and Kurt stepped in. Morris was humming at his desk, a song too out of tune for Kurt to recognize.

"Ah yes, stamping day," he said when he looked up. He offered Kurt a big grin. "To the back."

There was a door in the back that Kurt hadn't noticed before. Morris went up to it and pulled the iron handle open, and gestured for Kurt to follow him inside.

The other room was nothing like a physician's office. The walls were bricked and bare, and an iron brazier of burning coals stood to the side, near a small window through which sunlight shone in. The room felt damp despite the heat. Kurt steeled himself, ignoring the trembling in his bones. This was something he'd been expecting.

"On the floor," said Morris. Kurt hesitated a bit; doing this on the floor felt a little unprofessional. Still, he kneeled, a little unsure of what he should do next. Sprawl on the floor?

"You might want something to bite down on, wouldn't you?" said Morris, grabbing the extended iron handle of the brand protruding from the red hot brazier. He poked it around in the coals, sending sparks flittering up into the air. "I suggest you employ your wrist."

Kurt duly put his wrist in his mouth, biting down lightly. Morris pulled out the brand, the iron stamp on it glowing with heat. "Lay back and spread your legs."

Kurt obeyed, a little embarrassed at exposing himself and leaving nothing to the imagination. Still, he'd grown used to it in the past week, what with walking around naked. He tried to calm his breathing.

He jumped when Morris slapped him on his inner thigh, yelping against his wrist at the sharp sting. He kept his eyes focused on the ceiling

"Just preparing you," said Morris. He rubbed the spot, and then pressed the hot, burning brand into the skin of Kurt's inner thigh.

Kurt couldn't hold back the scream, fingers clawing at the concrete floor, teeth digging into his wrist and the tang of blood flooding his mouth. The sizzle and smell of burning flesh was tangible, and Kurt's eyes blurred with tears, wetness spilling down the sides of his face.

Morris ripped the brand off Kurt's skin, burnt flesh gluing itself to the iron. He dropped the brand back into the brazier, leaving Kurt on the floor, shaking and whimpering as the intensity of the pain seemed reluctant to dull. His entire thigh felt as though it was on fire.

"You can go now," said Morris, dusting off his white coat, as though the soot from the brazier might have clung to it. Kurt didn't quite feel like getting up yet. He wasn't sure his legs would support him.

Morris looked him over for a minute, as Kurt heaved breaths and tried to blink his tears away and bring his vision back in focus.

"Does it hurt you a lot?" Morris inquired.

"Yes," breathed Kurt, trying to quell the shivering. He raised his head to look at his thigh. The scar was an angry red deep burn that was browned around the edges. He whimpered loudly, shuddering and dropping his head back down.

Morris walked over and kneeled beside Kurt, a fact that Kurt was only dimly aware of. "Shall I help you out?"

Kurt carefully opened his mouth and removed his wrist. He wasn't sure what the sound he made was meant to signify, because it took him a while to recognize it as his own. He wanted to curl up in his soft, warm bed back in Lima, with the comfort and assurance that his father was in the room below and safe –

Morris placed a hand on Kurt's lower stomach, then slid it downwards to wrap it around his cock.

Kurt made a strangled sob, instinctively trying to shift away and his leg burning with agony at the attempt. "No, no, don't –"

"Hush. Just lie back," said Morris, a sickly sweet smile on his lips that was blurred in Kurt's vision. He tightened his fist and stroked Kurt a couple of times, though he was limp. "Relax and let yourself enjoy this."

Kurt didn't find himself enjoying it. The touch was foreign and unwelcome and the stimulation felt violating. He squirmed, swatting helplessly at Morris, hands weakened. "No, I really don't want this. I didn't sign up for this." He tried to pick himself up, scrabbling against the hard, rough flooring, mind racing with panic and pain.

"Stay put," said Morris genially. When Kurt didn't obey, he dug his fingers into the fresh burned welt of the brand, sending pain shooting through Kurt's body. Kurt choked on a silent sob, nearly blacking out from the agony.

Morris continued to stroke him as he recovered, though Kurt felt far from aroused at the moment. "I'm going to keep at this until you get off on it, so you might as well relax," he said, thumb roving over the tip of Kurt's cock as he manipulated his fingers, stroking down the length.

Kurt didn't think he could possibly relax. He found himself emitting a long series of whimpers, frantic and desperate and sweat beading on his upper lip. Morris slid a finger into his collar, tugging at him to vaguely hold Kurt in place as jerked him off with little success.

He pulled his hand away by the time Kurt had stilled, eyes blank and staring at the ceiling, cock only slightly hard. "Stubborn little prick," he muttered, voice dangerous and low. "Get the fuck out. Can't appreciate a favor from up above."

He let go of Kurt's collar and picked himself up, and stalked back out of the door to his office. Kurt scrambled up, feeling numb and body aching. His thigh burned with a strong, insistent ache. His eyes were still welling up.

Out in the office, Morris sat at his desk, looking angrily absorbed in some papers. Kurt hesitated for a moment, hugging himself. He then left quickly.

"Ah, stamped, were you?" said Dan when Kurt walked into his room, legs feeling as though they could give out any moment. Boris was sitting on Dan's bed, cross-legged again. They were playing cards. "Seems like you didn't take it too well."

Kurt went to his bed and sat down gingerly. He considered bringing up Morris' behavior. He ate his lunch instead.

"Smells like bacon," said Boris suddenly.

Kurt glanced up, chewing on a piece of dumpling.

"When they brand you," said Boris.

Kurt put his spoon down. "I don't like Morris," he said flatly.

"I do," said Boris. Kurt looked at him, making no effort to hide the fact he was judging him harshly for doing so. Boris didn't seem to care.

"He's a nice sort of fellow," he added.

"He's diddly," said Dan. "You won't like him if you don't like diddly."

Kurt decided not to bother. He pulled over his laptop and tried to ignore his racing heartbeat and the pain of the brand as he listened to music and stared at his diary document.

He wrote in about Morris, employing the use of a varied selection of expletives. He then cried a little, sniffled and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Neither Dan nor Boris commented on it, their game of Cheat seemingly engrossing enough to leave them dead to the world.

"Who," said Kurt finally, face feeling hot with indignity, "fucks their livestock?"

Dan and Boris looked up. "A lot of people," said Boris flatly.

He lowered his hand, placing his cards facedown onto the bed. "A lot of people buy you just so they can fuck their food before they eat it. Fuck their food while it's cooking. Fuck you while you're _dying_."

Kurt felt his heart stutter. "I didn't know that. I didn't know sex was a part of this entire endeavor or that this was like some kind of – some bizarro world of perverted fetishes."

Boris laughed at him and raised his cards again. He played one, a four of Hearts that Kurt could see from where he was sitting. "One six. Kurt, you're gonna be dead meat, and here you are complainin' about luxuries like dignity. Sheep have their balls tied off."

"Why do you think," said Dan, voice wheezier today than usual, "that nobody's bought me yet? It's not just the meat." He played a couple of cards. "Two Sevens."

"I'm not up for prostitution," snapped Kurt. He was shaking again. "I'm here to be consumed by a purchasing party. Not for sexual encounters. I'm not selling my body in that particular way."

"You can wail all you like," said Boris. "I call cheat."

"Damnit," said Dan, picking up the pile of cards from the floral-patterned bed covers.

Kurt lay in bed with the covers drawn over his head. His thigh throbbed with pain. He cried and shook until they brought the food in, and then tried to make peace with the idea of giving up his dignity as he ate. He didn't see many options at this point, and he was honestly more shocked at the idea that a small, tiny, terrifying part of himself almost, _almost_ wanted to turn back now. It frightened him as much as he found it inexplicable. He had been at peace with the idea of being gutted and killed and carved up and served as meat stock, signed himself up for it even, but this was making him quail in his decision?

He found his spoon shaking as he weighed the idea of being processed in his mind. That only served to frighten him more. He had signed himself up for it. Reconsidering and panicking was _not_ an option now. A week should not have served to change his mind or to put him at a distance from the blinding sorrow of losing his father.

He read all of _Making Your Peace With The Void Beyond _and felt marginally better by nighttime, though the burn still ached and stung. The growl of the machinery was constant and unforgiving all night.

He felt well-adjusted and detached by the next morning. He brushed his teeth in their shared bathroom, filed his nails, and then headed off to the showers because their shared bathroom didn't host one after all. He found that the soap felt surprisingly soothing against his brand. He dried himself off and returned to his room, only to find Dan gone and with him, the bookshelf.

Kurt hesitated. He decided to wait, and he had his laptop anyway. Dan didn't show up for lunch, nor did they deliver his portion. Kurt was feeling uneasy by the time the afternoon feeding rolled around, and when the facility staff only left one single bowl on their shared table, Kurt decided he ought to ask.

"Um, excuse me," said Kurt. The man glanced up. "Would you, by any chance, know where Dan Freyman's gone off to?"

"Oh, the guy in here with you?" answered the man. "He's being seen to. He'll probably be back, take it from me."

"Okay," said Kurt. He was suddenly afraid. If Dan was being seen to by a prospective purchaser, it was highly possible that Dan _wouldn't_ be coming back. Kurt then realized that that was the outcome he should hoping for, for Dan's sake. Those who ended up as scraps were paid much, much less and Dan's family needed the money.

He was panicking again. He crossed his legs, uncomfortably over the brand, wincing a little. He suddenly found himself missing Rachel, Finn and Carole with a deep, maddening sort of hurt. He tried to push it aside. These moments of uncertainty were upsetting him heavily. He really, really did not want to reconsider his decision now.

It wasn't as though he could go back on it. Get out of here. He immediately wishes he hadn't entertained that notion; it felt haunting.

The day passed in a bored, lethargic haze punctuated by episodes of panic that Kurt desperately tried to hold at bay or ignore. The sun lamp made it impossible to tell time, but by the time dinner rolled around, Dan hadn't returned. Kurt wondered if he'd been _bought_.

Which would mean he was dead.

Kurt told himself to be happy for him. He willed himself to stop tearing up and shaking. This was the point of the entire ordeal. This was the best possible outcome. Did he really want Dan to end up as scraps in the grinders?

He rubbed moisturizer between his toes and listened to Cyndi Lauper covers. Katrin came over before bedtime and sang along with him. She gave him a hug before she left.

Kurt didn't know why, but he cried himself to sleep.

Dan was still gone.

Kurt washed himself in the showers, dried himself off, and decided to spend the day asking around. His gut instincts told him Dan was gone. It was strange how, though he hadn't grown very fond of the guy, the idea of him being dead disconcerted him. And in a situation such as this one, it confused the hell out of Kurt.

"Excuse me, please," Kurt said to the facility staff who delivered his lunch. "Did Dan Freyman get sold?"

"Maybe," said the man, dropping off just one serving of food upon the room's table. None for Dan. "I don't know. I don't know if I'm even supposed to tell you, mate."

"Okay," said Kurt cautiously. The man left, and Kurt felt claustrophobic with fear. He tried to push away all thoughts of an escape because they made his chest pang in unquenchable ways.

"I don't want to die," he tried under his breath. It didn't really sound right.

"I don't like Dr. Morris," he tried next. It felt better. "I miss Dan," wasn't quite right either.

"I can't believe Dan's dead and I will be too," was alright. He started to eat. He'd gained a tiny bit of weight since he'd arrived; he assumed it must be the feeding.

There was a knock on the door in the evening, as Kurt was curled up in bed with his laptop and browsing through his (now mildly dated) fashion folder. Boris walked in.

"Katrin's been bought," he said flatly. Kurt's heart jumped.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry – " he started, but Boris cut him off with a wave.

"I have been too. They're picking me up tomorrow. Decorative dinner across two nights. A novelty, no doubt. We're centerpieces."

"Oh," said Kurt, mouth dry. "Um, I –"

Boris stared at him, eyes boring into his.

"I'm sorry," breathed Kurt. He flinched a little at his own words, uncertain.

"Sorry?" Boris' eyes narrowed.

Kurt clenched his fists. "I'm not going to congratulate you," he decided, voice resolute. "There's nothing to be congratulated for about being sold like sheep. Processed sheep."

Boris was glaring now, a sharp, animus look that made Kurt shiver a little. He still held his ground; he was used to being physically intimidated. Boris took a step closer.

"You think you changed your mind because Morris touched you." His voice was raspy, controlled. "But you're just blaming it for your insecurity. You lack resolution. You tell yourself that being molested put things in a different light, and maybe it did influence you _somewhat_ but –" he reached out and pressed a finger to Kurt's chest, and Kurt recoiled instinctively. "The problem is you lost heart in your suicide."

Because time passes," sighed Boris, withdrawing his finger and stepping back. "And with it, so does pain. You forget what it was like to want to die, the conviction you had when you signed yourself away, so ready to be sold and slaughtered _as cattle._ You want to take it back, you want to run out of here and back home."

"The problem is, was," said Kurt, voice shaking a little, "that I lost heart with living. That was the problem. You're not going to label me a coward for wanting to get out of here."

"The problem is," said Boris, taking calculated steps backwards, towards the door. "The reality of your death doesn't quite live up to your fantasy of it."

He left the room and shut the door, the slam an angry note of finality.

Kurt was shaking. He dug his nails into his arms, where he had crossed them. Katrin was gone. Boris was going to die tomorrow and he'd fought with him. He would never see him again.

He leapt out of his bed, pulled open the door, and stepped out into the empty corridor.

"Boris," he called out. He took a few tentative steps towards Boris' room. He then emboldened himself and walked over and knocked on the door.

"Boris, I'm really, really sorry." Kurt was surprised his voice came out in sobs. "Please. I'm really sorry."

Nobody answered. Kurt then realized that Boris was the only occupant of the room, and a hollowness consumed his insides.

He returned to his room after a couple more attempts. He rubbed his welling eyes, absently noting that the room's table was gone. The space where the bookshelf stood was still empty with only a part of the space occupied by one of Kurt's smaller bags.

He didn't feel inclined to worry about the furniture. He climbed into bed and pulled the covers up again, pushing his laptop out of the way. He didn't feel up to hiding from the truth anymore.

He wanted out. A part of him still wanted in, wanted to end this and get it over with but that part was quickly diminishing in voice and the fact was undeniable. The more he tried to strengthen his resolution, the weaker it became the next time he doubted it.

His defenses were lowering. He missed Finn and Rachel and his room and Carole and he missed wearing clothes and he missed –

He found himself bawling into his sheets, body shaking with sobs.

He missed Katrin and Dan and he'll soon miss Boris even if Boris had been nothing but terrible to him.

He missed the angry, resigned thrill of his novelty suicide.

He was shocked at himself the next day. He spent most of it plotting how to get out of the facility.

Their rooms had no windows, and nor did the main hall. There were heating vents, but Kurt didn't trust his chances with dislodging the grates and climbing into what could possibly be a labyrinthine furnace. He was allowed to wander the halls after all, though his nudity made him a bit disinclined to. He wondered what the chances of sneaking out of the front doors would be.

Probably not very good.

Sitting at the breakfast table back at the Hummel-Hudson household, Kurt had duly read and taken in the conditions of the facility in small print upon the back of the forms for Boonehelm's Processing Plant. The print had explicitly and imposingly stated that once signed in, there was no signing out. Kurt had tucked the forms back into his NYADA folder and forked up the bacon, giggling at his own mental note to stuff himself.

So he supposed that asking the facility for to amend the contract might be moot. He contemplated mutiny and insubordination. He played with the idea of throwing his clothes on, waiting discreetly, and then bolting out of the facility the moment the front doors opened. He had a feeling he would be overpowered and detained very quickly.

He didn't understand how the idea of escape made his insides twist up in panic. He had imagined it would have the opposite effect, because the thought of getting in here always made him feel more comfortable back when he hadn't been contained. Clearly, such comforts did not work in reverse. It confused him and frightened him. Was it because the idea of escape seemed so much more _real _to him right now, than the idea of a death by bizarre means had back then?

What would he tell his family about NYADA? How was he going to cope with the irrefutable fact of Burt's absence? He ran his fingers over the scarred welt of the brand on his inner thigh. It still stung with a fierce intensity and promised to be a pretty permanent mark. He hated that it marked his dutifully cared-for skin, but he supposed that was the least of his worries.

He ate his breakfast (which the staff just placed upon his bed in the absence of the table), but when lunch came around, he waited until the man had exited the room. He then grabbed the bowl and with no regrets and a small burst of pride, flushed all of it down the toilet.

He observed the facility staff. He had already known that the food was delivered by the same people that came around for cleaning – the ones that did that these days were a Fred Waters and an Oliver Newman. The former was perhaps about twenty-five and had something of a Scottish accent as far as Kurt could tell; the latter, a bit older. Neither of them were allowed to converse with the occupants, though they did seem to answer any innocuous questions Kurt would put forth. He tried to come up with ways to exploit that, ways to phrase questions in which that could work out to his advantage.

"So when do you see your families?" he tried to the ceiling. "Do you even get out of this facility? It's _so_ heavily guarded."

"Do you go out for smoke breaks? This looks like a really taxing job."

"Doesn't it bother you that the front doors are the only way out? What if they run out of meat?"

He frowned. He decided to attempt a different angle. "Do they pay you enough? I don't think they could ever pay you enough for manslaughter. Maybe you should… take it up with them. A classy little revolution. Get your union spirit fired up."

"Have you ever had to deal with any rogue, uncaring, mutinous escapees?"

When he stepped out of his room for his evening shower, he stumbled over a small, unlidded box and sent biscuits skittering across the floor. There was no note, but it didn't need one. He brought it back inside and stowed it under his bed, though he didn't touch any of them. It would be detrimental to his plans.

He did, however, cry heavily into his pillow.

He'd then dumped his dinner into the toilet as he had done with his lunch, feeling rebellious as he flushed it away. It had been almost heartening enough to detract from his nagging panic and sudden explosions of self-loathing and the quiet but insistent voice in his head that kept telling him he deserved every single bit of what he had and what he was going to get.

He told it to shut up and that he damn well didn't.

He regretted this, after all. He wanted NYADA. He wanted Burt back, but the reality of Burt's death felt so much more faraway within these walls, within the surreal detachment of Boonehelm's Processing Plant and the reality of his own was staring at him in the face. His gut survival instincts were prioritizing despite his own unwillingness to.

Deep down, he also suspected that he'd spent so long in here and so removed from his usual life that Burt's death almost felt dreamlike. He suspected that a part of him, a crazy, irrational part of him, expected the nightmare to end once he escaped from Boonehelm's. That Burt would somehow be back and alive and well. He found himself equating his escape to the revival of his life before Burt's death and it was a maddening, illogical train of thought but one he found difficult to avert.

He wondered if the isolation and boredom were shattering his composure more than he dared to admit. He partially wished it would be shattered enough for him to stop scheming, to stop wanting an out that couldn't possibly exist.

He didn't want to see Dr. Morris again. He had passed the man in the hallway en route to the showers the other day and he had offered Kurt a brief smile, though not one any different from how he greeted the others. Kurt decided it was an unnaturally kind gesture for a man like him and it had felt grating against his very bones. He dreaded the day he'd have to go back in for assessment.

He hadn't gotten to see Boris after their fight. The door of his room was now nameless, the plateholders where _Katrin Marshall _and _Boris Ryers_ were placed now vacant. Kurt supposed he'll never see Boris again.

He turned off the lights and lay in bed. The ceiling offered no answers or feedback on his plans or rehearsals of conversation with Boonehelm's workers ("does the staff of this place _live_ here? Do they provide you with housing and food?") but he kept trying it anyway. It was a better alternative to speaking to himself.

He fell asleep at some point, tucked into his covers as the heaters appeared to have been turned down.

He woke up to a very human heaviness on top of him, a very familiar scent and presence and he couldn't breathe from the weight –

"Dan!" he gasped, before a hand – Dan's hand, clasped itself over his mouth. He struggled in the darkness, the hand keeping his head pushed into the pillows. The room was lit only with the moonlight setting of the sun lamp, a dim, pale blue glow that shone off Dan's head and sweaty body and Kurt fought back physical repulsion, pushing at the man. He didn't understand what had happened to Dan, but understanding was pretty low on his priorities right now. Kurt tried to pull his legs up and his ankle met resistance. Glancing down, he realized it had been tied to the metal footboard framing with a necktie. One of his own, no doubt.

Dan's strength was surprising, his hand on Kurt's mouth holding him down, his knee between Kurt's leg as he rested the majority of his weight upon Kurt's lower stomach, trapping his cock against skin. His other hand trailed down Kurt's side, grabbing hard and feeling his flesh.

Kurt realized, heart jolting, that he could feel Dan's own cock against himself, hard and slick.

"Moonlight, mmm, so romantic," Dan breathed in his ear. Kurt felt his stomach protest, bile rising to his throat. "Not the real thing but I'll take what I can get…"

He licked Kurt's earlobe, leaving behind a wetness that felt infectious to Kurt. He then pulled away and sat back on his haunches, and Kurt struggled with all his strength with the hope of throwing him off, feeling as though his thought processes had come to a standstill, fixating solely on getting as far away from this situation and as far away from Dan as possible.

He'd be okay if he got away from Dan. He just needed that. It would solve everything and he would be safe again.

Dan pinched on Kurt's right nipple and rolled it between his fingers. "I _always_ take just what I can get," he muttered, a note of indignation in his voice. Kurt had stopped making muffled noises against Dan's palm, instead focusing his now one-track mind upon assailing Dan with his – thankfully unrestrained – hands.

Dan released Kurt's nipple, and fiddled with a bottle on the bed beside them. Kurt then realized it was one of his own moisturizing lotions. Dan then slipped a hand downwards, past Kurt's cock and balls, circling his opening. Kurt recoiled at the foreign touch, though he'd almost gotten used to it with the enemas. This was an entirely different context and it made his skin burn with shame. Dan's fingers were cold with the lotion, the slipperiness of which felt disgusting to Kurt now.

"You gonna scream now, boy?" Dan asked, contemplated Kurt in the low lighting. "You gonna scream when I let your hot wet mouth go and put it in you, or are you gonna be good?"

Kurt nodded,. He needed to get away to safety.

"You gonna stay quiet?"

Kurt nodded harder, ceasing his struggling, his hands dropping weakly to his sides. Dan shifted, making himself comfortable on Kurt's knees. He took his hand away from Kurt's mouth.

Kurt didn't miss a beat to begin screaming with all the air in his lungs. Dan made an irritated noise that Kurt almost didn't catch over his own hysterical voice, and didn't seem deterred any. Kurt trained his eyes towards the door; _somebody_ had to hear him, somebody should barge in and pull Dan off him and he needed to scrub himself down and maybe get a new room…

Dan slipped his finger in to Kurt, sudden and invasive and all the way to the knuckle. Kurt arched under him, tensing and digging his nails into Dan's arms, clawing and trying to push him away, even an inch further from Kurt. It seemed futile as Dan pumped his finger brutally, then without much in the way of preparation, added another.

He twisted them around and dug them into Kurt's inner walls, Kurt's voice wearing hoarse with the screaming. His eyes were clouded with tears that were readily spilling onto his pillow. Were the rooms soundproofed? Hadn't a few inmates from outside heard their singing circle a week ago or so and joined in? Didn't anybody care that he was screaming his heart out, calling for help?

The rush of peace was almost hypnotic when Dan withdrew his fingers, almost serving to cast Kurt into a defensive trance in the darkness. When Kurt felt the head of Dan's cock against his entrance, he slunk back into the sheets and sobbed wildly.

Dan sunk all the way in with one rough, merciless thrust. He thrust with a severe rhythm and without enough lubrication.

Kurt found himself drifting in and out of awareness, sometimes recalling the time Blaine had held him down with a comforting grip and made love to him and Blaine had been a firm, solid anchor and Kurt had felt grounded and loved and he felt so vague right now, so unstable and contemptible.

He passed out under Dan, to the obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh, to the agonizing pain in his spine.


End file.
